Worse than Saying Goodbye
by SevLovesLily
Summary: England hadn't expected that. No one could have possibly expected a mild morning like that to turn into a day of fighting desperately for friendship and sanity and bonds of love he didn't know he had. Warnings: Ridiculously long oneshot, involves both 1p and 2p characters, sort-of-character death, lots of cursing, blood and violence, mentions of black magic, slash, no happy ending


**This was originally an RP I had with _buffy4spike_ on Tumblr a while ago, and I re-formatted it so that it looked like an actual story and not an RP. If you're reading this because you wanted a fic to cry over, I suggest you listen to the HetaOni soundtrack while reading it. That'll make it about ten times sadder. If you're not necessarily reading it because you wanted a sad fic but just because you like FrUK, then I still suggest you do that because I'm an evil person.**

**Once again, I'll warn you: There is no happy ending. This story was written specifically to make people cry.**

* * *

With the flip of a newspaper page, the mostly empty and peaceful view was ruined for England by the sight of a familiar face. Even though he was in the country the man represented (as per order by his boss), he'd thought that he would be alone by choosing this lonely table in the local park…. Then again, he supposed this happenstance wasn't all too unlikely. And either way, he wasn't going to pass up a chance to antagonize the man.

"...Hello, Frog. What brings your ugly face here today?" he said just loud enough to be heard, folding down the newspaper and setting it on the table.

France looked up, only just having noticed the other nation's presence. He'd only seen a man out of the corner of his eye, and he would have thought he was a normal human if he hadn't said anything. And really, that man was the last person he wanted to see right now—but not for the normal reasons.

"Well, I never! I don't want to talk to you anyway!" he huffed, starting to walk away faster.

_Wow, who pissed in his cereal this morning?_ thought England, smirking. He then called after him tauntingly, "'I never'? Ha, what, are you from the bloody _South_? You've been spending too much time with America again, haven't you?"

Pausing in his steps, France turned around and glared. "What is your problem?"

That was almost too easy to think of a comeback for, however confused he was starting to get at the other's behavior: "I'm the United-bloody-Kingdom, I've been through centuries of dealing with wankers like you and Spain, and it's made me bitter—_that_ is my problem," he said with a tone heavily implying that it should have been obvious. "What's _yours_? You're acting like we've just met or something, Frog..."

"You usually don't go out of your way to start fights. I was simply walking by, didn't even see you, and you're being awfully rude and unpleasant!"

"...Well." England frowned slightly. "I was bored. And how the hell was I supposed to know you hadn't seen me? If my being unpleasant hurts your feelings _so_ damn much, why don't you hurl something back at me, dammit? ...It's not fun if you just cringe like Italy..."

"Maybe because I finally decided to _grow up_," France spat, sounding completely unlike himself, and turning away again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there's something I need to do."

At that, England narrowed his eyes in more confusion for a moment, but then got legitimately worried and stood up, pushing the chair back, and took a couple steps after him. "Alright, who are you and what have you done with the real France? Seriously—France, _grow up_? Out of _what_, what we've been doing for over a thousand years?"

"Out of being a confrontational jerk, that's what," he snapped over his shoulder. "And right now, I have bigger things to worry about than your foul mouth."

Oh, finally a real insult. Except it was sort of a roundabout one and not the kind he wanted. England snorted, feigning amusement but also starting to get a bit angry. "Like what, exactly?" he jeered.

There were a couple moments of silence in which France searched for the right words. To England, it just seemed like he was being difficult for that time.

"Saving you," said France simply. He continued to walk on, his eyes narrowed. "Not that you deserve it."

Truly taken aback for a moment, England's eyes widened, and his arms jerked outward in surprise. "Wait—what?" was all he could say for the moment before he started walking after France, his pace getting faster. "The bloody hell are you talking about, 'saving me'?"

"It's not like you'd care." France turns his nose up out of habit, though he was feeling far from like his narcissistic self at the moment. "And it's not just you, but everyone else too, though when I thought of this horrid idea, you were the one I thought of first. Stupid as that is." He didn't know why he was giving England that vague information. Probably because some part of him wanted him to know, to find out….

England couldn't help but get a bit frustrated, now that he'd heard that, and he promptly said, "Um, _yes_, I'd care, because apparently it has to do with me and other countries being 'saved.' Whatever you mean by that, that is... if you're going to even tell me, Frog."

But of course, it would take much more than that for France to break and tell him, or say more than, "It's none of your business. Everything's already taken care of. There's nothing you can do to stop me. Now go back to looking down your nose at everyone who passes you by and being a brute!" At that last bit, his voice shook with the uncertainty of whether or not he really meant that.

"If everything's already 'taken care of,'" started England, his voice rising along with his annoyance, "then what in blazes are you off to _do_, exactly?" Catching just far enough up to him, he grabbed his upper arm to stop him from walking away any further. "And what the bloody hell are you talking about?—_you're_ the one constantly looking down your nose at everyone! You're _France_, so I'm pretty sure _you're _the arrogant one here!"

Feeling a throb of anger (or perhaps that was just pain, he couldn't be so sure today), he jerked his arm back and snapped, "Well, you won't have to worry about me for much longer!"

England frowned again, but now with more confusion and alarm than the frustration he had before, and he didn't make an immediate attempt to seize France's arm again. That comment had sounded horribly cryptic…. "...What are you talking about?"

"Like I said, none of your business. Why are you pestering me anyway? This will be great for you. Who knows, maybe you'll get that stick out of your English ass and actually make a decent human being!"

"I think it's very much my business! You said that last thing like you won't be around anymore or something—but we both know that can't happen, since we're nations—so I'd like to know what the fuck is going on with you! And I'm not leaving you alone until you tell me!" England's voice raised again, and he refused to let it go back down. He just didn't _understand_; and he hated not understanding.

France stopped on his own again, feeling the desperation in England's voice. But no, still not quite enough to make him give it away. He almost felt sorry, though. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

As it looked like he might have finally been getting somewhere, England calmed down a little and pursed his lips. "...Just like you and everyone else never believe me when I say that faeries and magic exist?" he remarked, glad to make another snarky comment instead of a desperate one. "Bloody _try me_."

"No, because then you'd try to stop me under some obligation you made up on the spot," France argued quietly.

"Well, if you're doing something stupid, then of course I'd try to stop you...," he scoffed, folding his arms. "But I still demand to know what's going on. As your friend, I think I bloody deserve to know whatever you're doing..."

"Oh, so now you're my friend?" was what came immediately out of his mouth in both shock and mock-amusement—though he wasn't nearly as angry about it as he let on with his glare. "You insult every chance you get! I hate to say it, but who needs enemies when I have friends like you?"

"And you do the same!" England argued, his voice getting unintentionally rather high-pitched right there. His arms came unfolded at once, as he needed them to gesture dramatically. "But we're still _friends_... You're—you're literally one of the only friends I've got, now that..."—his frown got deeper and his voice quieter—"now that America's independent and doesn't want anything to do with me. Everyone else was just a colony, and none of them stayed for long, or even out of their own free will. So… _yes_, I'm your bloody friend!" He honestly hated himself for having to say all that, but it was all true and he was technically proving a point for his own needs, not just randomly admitting it. "And _now_ I'd like to know what you're doing, please."

Instead of warming up to him or even looking like he was considering it, though, France just looked away, his face darkening, and said, "Well, then I feel sorry for you." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he continued to walk, his head down and his eyes tired. It was strange, how much effort it took to hide everything that explanation of England's had made him feel. "I'm not a good friend to have, and I weep for you if I'm your only one. Now leave me alone."

Well. That was… ouch. England felt genuinely and almost physically hurt and confused, like he'd been hit very hard in the chest, and it forced him to take a step back. He doesn't understand why France would act this way, as neither of them had ever taken to saying things _that _hurtful... But then he furrowed his brow determinedly, and started after him once again.

"No, I bloody well won't leave you alone, Francis!" he said angrily once he caught up to him, reaching around to grab the front of his jacket this time and forcibly turning him around to see a mildly surprised but otherwise almost painfully emotionless face. God, his face was not supposed to be like that…. "Now, you're going to tell me what's going on!"

France's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward just slightly—and when he spoke, his voice was like ice. "Let me make this clearer for you, England. It. Is. None. Of. Your. Business." Then, he grabbed England's wrist and twisted it enough so the other nation had no choice but to let go. "I'm buying a puppy, there. Now go away."

Watching the other man blankly as he walked away, England hardly had a mind to even cringe from the pain in his wrist.

"...What? That doesn't even make any sense!" he called after him, resuming his own steps. "But I can't tell if you're lying in a pathetic attempt to get out of it, or if I'm just not getting it. You said something about 'saving me and the other countries...' So why is it not my business?"

"Because no one else knows, and no one else needs to." It was a simple thing to say, so simple that he hardly had to think to say it. It was something that had been in his thoughts for a while now. In contrast to all that he'd done and said so far, France placed a hand over his chest and bit his lower lip. He couldn't help it. The hand on his chest clenched into a fist. "Just go home. Please," he practically begged him. That's what it felt like, anyway.

And that's almost what it sounded like, too. It had been a rather long time since England had heard any sort of pleading…. He stared at France for a second, as though considering it, but then—

"No. You know how I stubborn I am, and I'm not going to leave. Seriously... what's wrong with you?" His hands gestured wildly to emphasize his confusion and desperation for normalcy with that, and he unintentionally let his worry show through his heavy breathing. "You're being deliberately difficult and acting... completely unlike yourself.

With his hand still over his chest, he gave a sigh and finally gave up. He would be the only one knowing that he was actually giving up to himself, not England, though. "If you insist on following me, don't interfere," he told him.

"Um... okay," said England hesitantly, not having expected that to be the thing that got him to yield. He figured that this was the best thing to a compromise that he was going to get, but he was still worried. This was suspicious…. And he couldn't quite promise that he wouldn't interfere, but he wasn't going to tell France that. So he continued walking with him.

Eventually, they came to an old, abandoned-looking building. It was dilapidated and falling apart, but France stepped around the rubble as if he'd done it a thousand times before, much to England's curiosity—_what business could he possibly have here?_ And he'd expected the man to just walk straight into a house like that, but when they reached the door, France came to a stop and knocked.

"Do come in, love! I'm waiting!" a cheerful voice called—a voice that sounded oddly like England's. As he walked in, France was immediately (and reluctantly) hugged by what looked like a clone of England—only his eyes were bright blue with swirls of pink. "Oh, you came! I was getting worried I'd have to do it."

That… that was too much to take in. England was almost too shocked and utterly bewildered to move, or even articulate words correctly. "Um..." He coughed to get the other two's attention. "The fuck... what...?"

The other England then stepped away from France, who was relieved at the hug being over with and brushed his chest off.

"My my, so this is the me from this world!" he said, sounding astonished, as he stepped forward and looked England over for a moment. The smile on his face was so… twisted, almost repulsive. Even in his confusion, England was feeling intense dislike for this person already, and he didn't understand it. "Hmm, he looks so cranky! You should smile more, love!"

"I'm going to give you what you came here for," France said lowly before England could react, purposely looking away from his England and instead at the floor. "Just leave everyone else alone."

"Oh, sure, sure!" said the other England cheerfully, waving a dismissive hand. "You're almost as bad as my Francy Pants!"

It was then that England had enough and refused to just stand there in shock any longer. He screwed up his face into halfway between a scowl and a bewildered look, then said, "Alright, I am CONFUSED." The other two looked at him, and he looked his supposed "other self" over. "Would you mind telling me what the bloody _mother-of-fuck_ is going on, France?"

"No, no! Let me!" The other England clapped his hands once in a child-like manner—which was rather fitting, since his clothes were horrifically bright, complete with a blue bow tie. "You see, other me, I'm from a parallel world! Ours is wracked with war, and you see, my dear Francy Pants is dying." His face saddened, but it wasn't quite believable, especially since it went back to cheerful a moment later. "So I need something from yours to make him better!

Things suddenly made a little more sense, though it was difficult to get over being in the presence of his alternate self. Shifting warily, England briefly looked to France—but he didn't get a look back.

"Uh, okay...," he said slowly, a little suspicious. "I can understand the parallel world bit, since I've been to a few myself... But..."—he narrowed his eyes more and swallowed slightly—"what exactly do you need from my France?"

At once, the other England's smile sharpened, and he tilted his head cutely, replying simply: "I need his heart."

It was impossible to decide whether or not he was surprised by that answer—but either way, he was absolutely disgusted by the way this… alternate self of his had said it. The man reminded him of Russia, but there was something different about knowing that another version of _yourself_ was like this. And can't help but curl his lip at that sickeningly sweet smile.

"You mean... literally?" he finally said, feeling his voice get smaller with the sudden wave of dread.

"Uh, yeah!" Happily, he wrapped his arms around France, who was obviously not enjoying it. "We made a deal! And he said yes! He's such a good person! Just like my Francy!"

Ignoring his continued disgust, England simply stared at his other self in silence for several second. He didn't know how to respond to that. He really didn't know how to respond to that…. France was _literally_ going to give his heart to this… monster. His heart. And England really didn't want to think about what that meant. Eyes widened, brow furrowed, arms jerking in shock, and his heart thumping faster in his chest, he looked abruptly to France.

"W-what the _bloody_ hell would you make a deal like that for?" he demanded, in pain beyond belief from all the mixed feelings. "What's he got over you?"

"Well you see, other me…," the other England began as-matter-of-factly, not letting France answer. It didn't look like he'd been about to answer, anyway. A knife seemed to magically appear in that England's hand, so casually that it was like a roundabout threat. "The Italy from my world is growing more desperate, and the war is reaching levels we can't possibly hope to contain. Which is why my poor France is dying." He sniffed a little, and it seemed rather feigned. "So, if I don't get what I need, then I'll simply open a portal and bring the war over here!"

He clapped his hands again, finalizing it and creating a brief, heavy silence in the room. England's eyes widened in dawning horror—so that's what France had meant. He was going to sacrifice himself to save this world from sudden war…. And England couldn't decide which he wants less: for France to die, in front of him no less, or for war to suddenly start going on all over the world.

But something pushed him to an instinctive decision, and he stepped forward at once, reaching out for him and attempting to pull him away from the other England, shouting desperately, "D-don't—France—no, you don't have to do that!"

"I told you not to interfere…." France growled, finally speaking up. He closed his eyes as the other England ran his knife lightly over his chest, suddenly really wishing he had never brought England.

"It's a nice strong heart, too." The other England smirked cruelly, ignoring the pleads from this world's England. "I wonder, how long will it beat after it's out of your chest?" he mused, his strange pink and blue eyes hooded with pleasure. "My France is going to be okay. He's going to live. I'll make sure of it."

Everything was falling apart and crumbling to dust in England's mind, but he refused to let it. Fuck. _Fuck._ No, he couldn't let this happen. He wasn't _going_ to let this happen. He couldn't believe that France was actually selfless enough to do something like this, and at the same time he was trying his hardest to think of a plan….

Attempting some sort of black magic to stop the other England would have taken too long, and trying to physically stop them could result in France getting his heart cut out faster…. Oh, this was hopeless. And _he_ was hopeless. With nothing left, he reached into the depths of his last resorts for a solution.

"W-wait!" he stalled, holding out a hand toward the other England. "Does… does it need to be _his_ heart?"

"I told you to go home," France said in warning, his voice rising. And he still couldn't look at England. He wouldn't have been able to take it. But, though he kept his eyes downcast and his hands clenched into fists, he couldn't help it.

Meanwhile, the other England took the knife and tapped the flat part of the blade against his chin in thought, suddenly very interested by this England.

"Well, yes," he replied, as casually as though he were answering some academic question. "The heart of your other self will grant you eternal life." He paused to giggle childishly, his eyes flashing. "I wouldn't want your heart anyway, other me. It's so… black."

At the other England's confirmation that he wouldn't have been able to trade his heart for France's, he lost a great deal of hope and saw no point in replying to the notion that his heart was black. He already knew that, anyway… though what he was feeling at the moment should have proven otherwise. He was breaking.

"No, I'm not going home, Francis! I'm not just going to leave you here!" England yelled as soon as he felt the first bit of him break, his voice cracking. And he could feel tears starting to form at the bottom of his eyes. The only thing left he could think of to do was try to reason with France. "And… the world will be in chaos either way! If you're gone, what's going to happen to your country? What are your _people_ going to do? How is the rest of the world supposed to just go on peacefully if you're suddenly _dead_?"

He didn't realize it at first, but there were actual tears running down his face at this point. Noticing them, France bit his lower lip and tried his best to smile and to not start crying as well. He failed.

"I told you, everything is already taken care of. Don't worry," said France shakily, closing his eyes against his own tears. "I'm sure Korea will take my place with the groping. That boy does big brother proud."

He hated that his voice was so shaky, but he'd prepared himself for this.

"Trust me," the other England added, laughing. "You don't want our Italy over here. If ever there was someone with their knickers in a twist, then it's him. Besides, I love my poor sick Francy-poo with all my heart. You must hate yours, then. I'm doing you a favor, love!

"But…" His voice was now almost inaudible, as it had become hard for him to breathe. "But I don't hate him."

England was trying oh so desperately to calm down. He was one of the world's oldest and most powerful kingdoms, after all, and he'd been through enough warfare to be able to deal with this…. But really, _no_, he hadn't. Not _this_. He'd fought wars against France before, but they were either for territory or just because he'd wanted to kick the wine-bastard in the balls just _once_—he'd never once thought before that he might actually _lose_ him.

But—no, he had to stay strong. This was like war—war against his other self… and he needed to think about strategy, didn't he? Well, no, strategy wasn't exactly famous for helping him…. Luck took that prize. So did doing anything that could buy him more time….

"I—can I at least… say goodbye to him?" he managed to say, honestly surprised for a moment that his voice still worked. If not for buying more time, he needed this—he just really needed it.

"Oh, sure!" The other England looked at France with a smile before turning back to England. "Wanna give him the good old one-two before his heart is mine?" he joked, playfully punching the air.

"England, that's not…you don't need to." France swallowed, and it was suddenly much more painful than before. "It's for the best, trust me."

"Yes!" the other England agreed enthusiastically, raising his pointer finger for emphasis. "I showed him my world so he'd understand just how tragic it would be if it were to come over here. Frankly, it wouldn't be pretty."

"No, I… I do need to." England practically choked the words out, breathing heavily and feeling his heart trying to jump out of his chest. He looked down at the dusty floor for a second, feeling himself get lost in it and feel like he might just fall over and drown. But he didn't. He just looked back up again. "I understand. Just… please, can you give me a minute with him? I'm not asking you to leave, just—give me space to…"—he swallowed, finding it difficult to say even this—"say goodbye. Please."

The other England rolled his eyes, thoroughly amused now. "Okay, don't weep over your lost punching bag. I'm sure you have more," he laughed. Stepping away, he pushed France toward England. "Go on then. Say your goodbyes."

He ignored the other England's remark and stepped forward the moment he could. He and France just stared at each other, hesitating for a second and not moving at all, but he then got over it and took another, quicker step forward and threw his arms around France, hugging him as tightly and desperately as he could.

England was hardly even aware that France didn't react immediately to the arms around him as he brought one hand up to the right side of France's head so he could pull him even closer, pressing their cheeks together. There was a second or so of silence in which both of them just shook slightly where they stood, and where England simply tried to savor these last moments with France. The word _last_ echoed in his mind and made him feel worse than ever.

Bringing his lips closer to the other nation's ear, he whispered, "I'm sorry… about earlier. I didn't know you were…" That sentence trailed off, as he simply couldn't bring himself to finish it. "There's no way I could have known."

"It's all right, _mon ami_," choked France, smiling sadly. He raised a hand slowly and gently touched England's face, his eyes wet. "You know how emotional I can be during certain times of the month, _oui_?"

England almost wanted to laugh ironically, remembering the last time he made that sort of jive at France and thinking of how horribly, horribly ironic is was that it was being said now. Then he felt a stab of pain, of remorse for all the things he'd ever said or done… and it felt awful.

"Yes, I do…," he said, managing a slight, shaky laugh. He was trying his hardest to keep his voice steady, though, even as he next whispered—"Oh _God_… I hate you so much for doing this to me…." His voice dropped even lower, to the point that it was difficult for France to hear even though it was right next to his ear. "…Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because we're not friends at all, Arthur," France whispered into his ear, finally realizing that his arms were doing nothing at the moment and wrapping them around him. "I feel for you far too intensely for that. I need to do the right thing for once…."

At those words, England could feel his heart shatter within his chest, and it felt as though both that and his lungs had stopped working altogether. He'd never had to deal with something like this, with _caring_ about someone so much—not even way back when with America—and he just might have burst with the pain of it. It was enough that he couldn't help his face screwing up into the worst sort of pain one could express….

Instead of just letting himself cry into France's neck like he wanted so badly to, though, he shakily pulled his head back just enough to brush his lips over France's. Feeling a shock and shuddering slightly at the pressure, France moved his head to brush his lips as well—and then push his head forward and kiss England with desperate, shaking lips. It was so difficult just to kiss him properly…. Both of them had to strain to keep their lips from trembling with all the sobs they wanted to let out but couldn't. But they couldn't stop, they both just needed this, just one kiss, even if it wasn't a proper one…. It would be both the first and the last.

Without quite removing his lips from England's, France whispered, "Tell the twins I said goodbye."

"Can we get on with this?" The other England said impatiently from ever where he was standing, tapping his foot.

England closed his eyes, letting a few tears stream out before he moved his lips a centimeter away from France's to choke out, "Just—just one more minute, please." And his other self huffed, reluctantly agreeing.

Breathing heavily, he tried to calm down and suddenly got a thought—but he tried not to show any change in emotion or pace as he moved back in to press his cheek to France's and whisper very lightly in his ear, "I will… if I have to. How… how good is the other England at magic?"

"Very good," whispered France at once, seeing where he was going with that. "Arthur, please don't do anything stupid." He gripped the other nation's hand, tightly, his eyes filled with fear. "Please. He'll kill you."

"I'm becoming quite bored," the other England whined, once again. "Can I please take my heart now?"

But both of them ignored him. And England realized that this probably meant his other self might have been able to stop an attack coming straight on, but he was willing to take the risk.

"I refuse… to let you die," he whispered huskily, using all of his strength to keep his voice from shaking too much. At the same time, he moved his hand down France's side to inconspicuously slip it into his pocket, where he felt a—_Yes_—bottle of perfume. Of course France would have perfume with him even when he's walking to his… _no, he couldn't think about that_. England carefully and quickly unscrewed the top while he whispered again in France's ear—"If I can kill him first, I _will_…. If not, he will cut out my heart before he gets to yours."

Without hesitating a single second, England pushed a suddenly panicking France as far away—to safety—as he could and at the same time threw the opened perfume bottle directly at the other England's eyes—at which the man yelped and snarled, his blue eyes now completely red.

And a split second after the bottle left his hand, he launched himself toward the other England, aiming to both tackle him and to try to get the knife, but he easily managed to duck out of the way and slash his side with the knife before hopping back a few steps, away from the nation falling to the ground, sliding a bit in the rubble, and clutching at his wound. All the while leaving France to watch in horror from his spot near the wall.

He studied the blood on his blade for a second, his childish smile gone. "You're very stupid, other me. Not to mention very selfish. I need your France's heart," he pouted, "and you're being quite rude."

England silently cursed the fact that any magic he knew that would have even been helpful to him right now would have taken too long to do, almost too angry about that to worry about the pain in his side. And he was only vaguely curious about whatever was pressing against his ribs—_hold on, it's my gun,_ he realized._ I've got a gun, I've got a _fucking_ gun—!_—Knowing that it was his last chance to save France, he plunged his free hand into his jacket and made to point it directly at the other England—

But before he could pull the trigger, the other England smiled and clapped his hands, doing an odd sort of jump. A bright portal opened behind him, and his grin became manic as he snapped his fingers. It didn't seem to have done anything at first until France let out a strangled gurgle and collapsing to the floor, at which the other England seemed to transport to the other side of the room, then took him under his arm.

"Tee hee, catch me if you can, love!" he laughed wildly and cruelly. With that, he disappeared with France through the portal, which closed abruptly.

_"NO!"_ yelled England desperately, staring at the spot the portal had just closed in horror and reaching one hand out uselessly. Once he realized that they both truly were gone, he dropped the gun and allowed himself to fall to the ground completely, suddenly crying very hard and pounding the floor.

"God, no, no, _no_—I am such—a—fucking—idiot! _I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot…__." He suddenly hated his inherent narcissism so much that it hurt. This was his fault…. Within a few seconds, he had to_ cease his pounding of the floor because of his inability to stop shaking so fiercely, and he couldn't even push himself upward again. "Why couldn't he have just fucking _killed_ me, God dammit…?"

England could feel the wound on his side starting to heal, as they always did with nations, and it was then that he forced himself to think. But everything pointed to the fact that France was likely already having his heart cut out and—_no, fuck…_ If there was even the slightest chance that France was still alive, he had to try. Opening a portal would take long enough—which _thank-fucking-God_ he knew how to do—so there's no time to try to get other countries to help. So England forced himself to sit up and focus, and he started his attempt to open a portal, though he wasn't even sure if he'd be able to open it to the right place….

Around two minutes of straining his magic and painful focusing later, though, there was a spark in the air that seemed to be ripping itself into a portal in the next moment. Relieved but also suddenly very scared, as this was probably the most dangerous thing he'd ever done, he stood up and immediately stepped through the portal, saying with as much determination as he could muster, "I'm coming, France…."

* * *

The other England made his way back to his France's house, grinning as he opened the door to find his love at his desk, smoking a cigar and looking over his paperwork.

"Oh, sugar blossoms!" he sang, dropping France's limp body on the floor.

The other France lifted his head and blew out a column of smoke from the side of his mouth. His eyes were red and his jaw was covered by five o'clock shadow. He stared at the unconscious nation, flicking ashes onto the floor. "So this is the other me?" Turning France's face with his foot, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. "He'll do."

England wrapped his arms around his France and giggled. "Yay! I did it! I saved you, my love!"

In return, France draped one arm around England's shoulders and smiled. He was far more cunning than England, far more dangerous due to his life fading away. "Oui, Arthur. You saved me."

* * *

He paused only for a few moments once he stepped into the other world to check his surroundings. Honestly… it didn't look all that different. Actually, he seemed to be outside the same house he was just in, as the structure of the street he was on looked the same… except everything was darker, even the sky, like something out of a horror film. And no one was around, either….

As much disgust and fear as England was feeling for this alternate world, he was relieved to find that it was easier than he'd thought—that he could actually find his way around…. But to where? _Alright, uh… France. He's trying to help the other France. So I'll try his house first,_ he thought. Without wasting another second, he took off in the direction of where he was pretty sure the other France's house should be, all the while trying to blink back the tears of worry he had that it might have been too late.

* * *

France awoke slowly, his blue eyes meeting a mirror image of himself. Only he was dressed in rags and smoking the most disgusting looking cigar France had ever seen in his life. Not to mention his hair was stringy and split at the ends….

"So, princess finally wakes up," said the gruff voice of his other self, who looked him over as the other England clung to his arm with a chipper smile.

"I got him just for you!" he said cheerfully in that voice that he didn't deserve to have. France wished the other England sounded less like his own. "He came willingly! We made a deal! You were right! You were right! He did agree, love!" Overly excited, England bounced on the balls of his feet. And it was starting to annoy his France—though he didn't say so.

"You would have opened the portal, wouldn't you, mon amour?" he said, petting England's hair.

France cringed at the way he said "mon amour"—there was no grace to his voice, no compassion, just cold cunning. He France had seen men like him before, had been ruled by men like him before. His other self was just as much a monster as the other England, maybe even more so. His heart was going to be given to this creature and it suddenly made him sick, but he had agreed. Better him than the rest of the world. His boss had agreed. The power this other England possessed was something France couldn't even comprehend, and that made him valuable to his other self, he knew.

"How are you going to do it, love?" the other England asked joyfully, awakening France from his thoughts.

France's other self took another drag of his cigar. "I could do the old kiss routine, but then you wouldn't like that, would you?"

* * *

Panting harder than ever and ready to collapse once he made it to what he was sure is the other's France's house, England had to once again force himself not to lose control of himself. He needed more than _anything_ than to remain in control right now.

His first glimpse of the house made him want to puke, it was so anti-France…. The place was just… awful. For France, anyway—and he didn't want to think of what _his_ other self was like…. But England didn't dwell on that for any longer, as his priority was finding where France was. Or where the other England was, at least. And this time, he knew it would have been useless to just straight-up attack him—especially since he'd likely have been up against two. So he immediately headed around the side of the house, feeling at the walls for pulses of human presence (which his magic could detect on command) and—_Got it_.

His heart started pounding, as he was afraid to feel relief just yet, in case he'd only get let down, _horribly_ let down…. But he once again calmed himself before squatting next to the wall (he wasn't going to risk getting caught by looking in through the window) and putting forth all the magical effort he could to push his sight and hearing to the other side of the wall. In his desperation, he managed it within a minute, and… France was on the floor. Looking unconscious. But… his chest looked fine. So he still had his heart….

_Bloody mother of Jesus, thank _God_, he's not dead, he's alive, he's alive…._ England was crying with relief, but at the same time with hopelessness, for the other England and France were in there and it looked like they were about to do something and _England had no bloody idea what to do…_.

Inside the house, France carefully turned head to look up at his other self just as the other reached down to unbutton his shirt and place a horribly rough hand over his chest. France's skin broke out in goosebumps and he desperately wanted to shift away, but he couldn't. It was as if he'd been paralyzed.

"Arthur, sweet thing, would you do the honors?" His other self turned away and started to cough roughly, finally hacking up a wad of blood and spitting it to the side. The other England rushed to his side and wrapped his arms around him, cooing and fretting.

"Oh, my poor love…." The other England's thick brows furrowed as he pet his France's hair. France cringed when those psychotic blue eyes are turned to him and he lifted a knife. "This is it for you, cupcake. A deal's a deal."

_Dear God, no, no, no, I'm not going to let him die,_ England thought outside the house, panicking and shaking very hard, _I _can't_ let him die… I have to bloody _do_ something, now… Now. Now_—Letting his instincts take over, he pulled himself away from the wall, at the same time pulling his senses back with him, and he raised his gun to the window without moving his head look through it at all—_NOW!_

Without looking, he couldn't aim, but he didn't need to—he remembered where the other England was standing in accordance to the window, and that was all he needed to know as he immediately pulled the trigger, forcing the bullet out of the barrel and through the glass.

No one inside the house could register the gunshot and sound of glass breaking at first, it had been so sudden—but the other England let out a shriek as the bullet tore through his shoulder. He gasped, stumbling to the side. The other France looked up while France watched them helplessly, sprawled on his side with his chest exposed for the knife.

"Go on, love." The other England clutched his bleeding shoulder, his eyes flashing—but not with pain. "You do what you have to. I'll keep the other away."

France thought for a moment that his other self would object—he knew he would if his England were to try the same thing, but his other self proved him wrong. His violet eyes narrowed and a sharp smirk quirked his lips. "Oui, mon amour."

With that, France was taken again, dragged by his collar down a flight of stairs.

"Do come out, other me," the other England called out to the man biding his time outside the house. He lifted a hand and sensed the other's magic, and then with one snap of his fingers, he sent a volley of knives from the kitchen back through the window."

Silently cursing that all he'd gotten was the other England's shoulder, he jumped back slightly when several knives come flying out the window—but, will all the internal torment ripping him apart, he was completely willing to take any risks necessary—and so he did as he sudden instincts told him and jerked one arm out to grab one of the knives. He did get one, but he ended up grabbing it by the blade, which cut into his hand immediately—but he was too focused on his anger and fear to register the pain before he slid over to directly in front of the window and threw the knife at the other England, shouting, "_Fine!__"_

But the other England held up a hand, stopping the knife in midair without difficulty. "You're being awfully rude, other me," he said with mock-friendliness. "Barging into other people's deals like you have. I just have to teach you some manners!" Blue eyes meet green, and a smirk rivaled the scowl across from him. "You will not take my France away from me!"

"And you won't take _mine_!" shouted England, only vaguely aware of exactly how loud he was doing so. His eyes met his other self's with a look of rage, and without thinking, he launched himself through the semi-broken window head-first and ignored the shards scraping across his skin as he landed on the floor by his hands and flipped himself back over to his feet.

England could suddenly feel a stab of pain in his chest, as though he could sense that something was wrong… that something was happening to France… And he knew in that split second that he had to do something _now_. The other England was standing there, right in front of him, likely very ready to attack him—but he still had a nasty hole in his shoulder. That was the weakness he needed to get to before it healed. Without breaking the flow of motion he'd had upon flipping over, he once again—seemingly recklessly—launched himself toward the other England, this time aiming only to grab the arm—or even the hand—of his wounded shoulder and _pull_. Very hard. All the while yelling profanities and other things he wasn't even fully aware of.

"You—will—not—kill—him—!"

* * *

Downstairs, in the other France's decrepit wine cellar, he looked down at his other self and sighed.

"Look, this isn't exactly what I want to do, but it's either you or me, and that means it's you."

He took a knife out of his pocket, and the France below him barely made a whimper as the first incision was made.

Once again, the other England laughed and stepped to the side. It was with less ease this time, however, as he only just dodged England's grip.

* * *

"Why not?" he taunted, narrowing his eyes at the man trying to right himself and get back into a good fighting position. "I know you, other me. You just don't like having your toys taken away from you. Your France is your punching bag, but you see him serving a greater purpose than deflecting your insults." The other England snapped his fingers, and the floor opened up between them as well as more knives being thrown as though by invisible hands—which England dropped to the floor to avoid. His cruel smile widened; he'd expected as much, but he was enjoying watching the man squirm. "Tell me, love, what was the first thing you said to him today?"

Still panicking more than ever from the knives and everything else, England's mind was racing to find something, just _something_ that could help him…. And he knew his only real chance at this point was magic. He couldn't do anything like the other England could, though—not as quickly, at least…. But he could improvise. With that thought, he almost absentmindedly grabbed a fistful of the gravel-sized glass shards inconspicuously from the floor, keeping that fist shut tight, and pushed himself back up once he had the chance.

The other England's words seemed to only reach his ears once he was on his feet, but that only made it hurt more. Once they hit him, everything shot out of him at once, without warning to even him.

"Shut—the fuck—_up_! _I love him!_" he yelled, angry tears forming in his eyes—angry both towards the other England and himself. England only paused for a moment at the shock of saying that—he'd certainly never said it before, but he knew it was true. "And—and since you're apparently the opposite of me, you know what I think? I think you only pretend to love your France, just like I pretend to hate mine! And sometimes you convince yourself that you do love him, too, but only because it bloody _suits your purposes_! You fucking hate him, you hate all of him, and he hates you too!"

All the other England did was smirk at his outburst. "An astute observation, other me," he said, panting a little from his wound. "Maybe it's right, maybe it's not, but whichever it is, I need my wonderful Francy alive! I find myself kind of disappointed by you, to tell the truth. You put your nose where it doesn't belong, not to mention you're whiny and stupid." And then, in childish contempt, he stuck out his tongue.

England found himself only slightly annoyed by the other England's accusations of him being whiny and stupid, but he did narrow his eyes for a moment. It seemed that his other self's brand of insanity was the polar opposite of his. It had wracked his brain just plain silly and made him childishly cruel…. And he was disgusted by it.

Feeling he had a sure-fire shot here, since the other England seemed rather preoccupied with the universal mistake every villain seemed to make—taunting his prey, he squeezed the glass shards in his fist once more, hoping to God the magic he'd had building up for the past minute worked: Without allowing himself to give any sort of visual warning, England threw the gravel-sized shards straight toward his other self. The magic he'd been infusing them with caused each of the bits of glass to extend to the length of knives, and since the shards had all flown from his hand in a cloud sort of formation, the other England was almost literally facing a wall of glass shards and nowhere to jump to.

Giving a shriek, the other England was pinned against the wall by his arms within the second—although, unluckily, he did manage to deflect the ones aimed at his more vital areas. There was nothing he could do but glare.

"Not fair," he huffed, one eye closed from the blood leaking into it from a gash on his forehead. "You're really mean, you know?" He coughed a bit, blood leaking down from his mouth. "Francy will take care of you. He has your heart, love."

That… was a bit of an unexpected thing to hear. But England was too busy panting from all the energy he'd just used and with extreme relief that it had actually worked to dwell on it.

"Yeah," was all he had to say, agreeing with everything the other England had said, before frantically looking around to locate the staircase that the other France had gone down and making a mad dash toward and down them.

The other France looked down at his work. Messy but necessary. "Poor bastard." He took another huff of his cigar, ignoring the pain in his eyes from his encroaching blindness.

France glared up at his other self, his neck and jaw coated with his own blood. All it would take would be this one reaching into his chest and taking his heart. He closed his eyes, waiting for it…. But it didn't come. Instead, before his other self could do anything, there was a pounding sound from someone running down the stairs.

England reached the bottom step at a run and nearly fell when his feet hit the floor—more because of what he saw than balance trouble, though: The other world's France was standing over his France, who was bloody from chest to jaw and looked very dead, as far as he could tell in that second. Panic hit him so hard that it seems to knock the wind out of him, and for what seemed like forever trapped in a moment, he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe. But the panic pushed him straight through that and into a rage where he wasn't even completely aware of what he was doing or saying.

"YOU—FUCKING—BASTARD!" He punctuated each word with the sharp movements of his arm to remove his gun from his jacket again, and pulled the trigger just as he finished the last word.

To the other two, though, that had all been merely a couple seconds. There had been no reaction until the gunshot rang out—and somehow, in England's blind panic, he hadn't aimed enough to hit anything. So the other France was only startled at the gunshot—but enough, of course, that he dropped down, hauling France up and holding the knife to his chest.

"You are turning out to be a real thorn in my asshole, monsieur," he hissed in his low voice. "Now, think of a deal or we both die." He held France's jaw and glared at England with one violet eye. "I should have known that useless little brat wouldn't hold you back."

Rather than the endless swearing that should have been going through his mind at being pissed about the bullet not hitting anything, _'Useless little brat'_ echoed in his head for a moment. So he'd been right, the other France did hate the other England. But what was more important—and which actually took a second to hit him—was that his France was actually still alive…. Oh, that was relief like no other.

And he still had the gun pointed at the other France, but he wouldn't have dared try to shoot for fear of accidentally hitting his France instead. He wasn't even sure if he had any bullets left. England stared into his France's eyes, silently communication God knows what, and shaking with pain and fear for his life and unable to look at the exposed heart in his chest. But he'd come this far, and he was most certainly not giving up now.

"W-what do you want?" he finally said to the other France, finding that his mouth was suddenly very dry. "…A-anything, I'll give it to you. Just not his heart."

The other France watched England calmly with calculating eyes. "First of all, I want you to fix my England. Whatever you did to him better be reversible. Annoying as he is, I need him. Second of all, you better find me a cure." Pausing, he coughed roughly—and it did not sound pretty at all. "Shit, I need another cigar…."

Those demands hardly registered to him as anything but buying more time for himself, though. Not a single part of England had even considered them from the first sentence. His face hardened into a scowl, but it broke for a moment as he realized how much his France was bleeding. Even in his reluctance to attempt shooting, he kept his gun pointed directly at the other France and snarled, "How do you expect me to do that while you're holding him?"

"You'll think of something." The other France smirked, his violet eyes narrowing into slits. "Of that I am sure. Now, go fix my England. I need him."

If he went and fixed the other England, he was likely to just be killed before the other England came down there and put France's heart into the other France. And he definitely couldn't guarantee that the other France would refrain from cutting out his France's heart when he's gone. So he couldn't do that. He couldn't leave this spot.

_Alright, rational thinking time, Arthur, you can _think_, god dammit…._ All he had was the gun. And he may or may not have had any bullets left…. He knew he had loaded it after the last time he'd used it before today, but he really couldn't remember how many times he'd shot it today. It was a bigger chance that France would die if he didn't take this risk, now, though…. So England nodded to the other France, acting like he was agreeing.

"…Okay." He slowly lowered his arm to make it look like he was lowering the gun—

"Arthur… don't," France whispered desperately, though he knew that he wouldn't be heard. The stink of his other self was that of death and he couldn't stand it. He had honestly never thought that England of all people would have come for him. Tried to save him. _So much wasted time,_ he thought sadly to himself. He felt the nasty stubble of the other France against his cheek. If he were human, he would be dead by now.

—But then Arthur shot—luckily an actual bullet—at the elbow of the arm the other France was using to hold the knife.

At the same time as the shot, the other France moved just a fraction of an inch in what might have been a flinch, and suddenly France felt a pain he hadn't felt in years. He'd been shot. His eyes met England's in horror—not in betrayal, not in blame, not anything similar to a _Now look what you've done_ look, but simply with the horrific air of _I've been shot_. No, England was the one whose eyes were full of blame—for himself, and a thousand apologies that could never suffice.

Blood soaked from the bullet wound in his shoulder, and he fell back with the other France as the bullet went through them both. The knife clattered to the stone; then his other self pushed him and France rolled limply onto the floor. He was suddenly looking at the blade, just staring at the gleam with vague, fading thoughts in his head.

:Merde, you really had to go there didn't you?" the other France spat, sounding more exasperated than angry as he stood to brush off his clothes. The bullet had gone through his shoulder and grazed his arm. It was bleeding, but as if to prove it was still functional, he took out another cigar and lit it with an old Zippo. "Nice try there, Art, but mine's bigger."

He took out a pistol of his own and aimed it at England, whom France could hardly see due to his blurring vision. But he could still hear the gunshot ring out and the sound of England falling to the floor and yelling some profanities—which meant he was still alive after the shot. In that one second, extreme panic had engulfed him to be replaced by utter relief. Not that he had the energy to feel much anyway.

If he didn't give his heart to this France, that England was going to recover eventually and fulfill his end of the bargain, but then it was still early. England would heal and do what he had to, France knew. He always had, and if this France planned to shoot England again, this time to kill, he wouldn't get his heart. Carefully, he reached for the knife handle and held the blade to his chest, glaring weakly.

"Both of you listen to me," he hissed out. "Other France… if you kill him… you aren't getting your heart." His mouth tasted like blood and he hated it. "And England… you need t-to go home…."

"Well, the frilly version of myself is finally making some sense." The other France tilted his head toward England, who was on the floor and clutching his wound. "You leave and let me have my heart. Sure, your little toy here dies, but then there's no war, or—you don't, I shoot you again, your little tumor dies, my sweet psycho upstairs recovers, and then there will be a war like you have never seen. I should say it's a kinda obvious choice." The tip of his cigar glowed in the gloom, and France knew that they were at a stalemate. Still, there had to be something….

The wound was a bit too distracting to let him respond immediately. That bullet, as much as he'd tried to dodge it, had hit him in the side and was about an inch too far in to be considered grazing. Dark red was beginning to spread in his jacket almost before he felt the horrible and long-forgotten pain of skin and muscle tearing. He hadn't been shot since World War 2, and he'd nearly forgotten what it felt like….

What was worse than any of that pain, though, was having seen France fall to the floor and knowing that _he_ shot him—and actually did more damage to _him_ than the other France. It almost felt completely hopeless at this point.

"Don't call him a toy," he spat, his voice a rasp. "Or a tumor." He coughed and spat a mouthful of blood at the other France a second later, still trying to keep his wound from bleeding out. It was too big to heal itself very quickly…. He was sure it would take at least an hour. If he even made it out of there alive. Because he was truly aware, now, that it was very possible that he wouldn't make it. Although if he didn't, that would have meant that France didn't make it either, because he planned to fight for him to his last breath. At the moment, though… he felt like laughing. In a rather deranged sense. He'd definitely gone madder than ever in the past hour or so.

The other France stepped back as the mouthful of blood hit his shoe and scowled, but before he could say anything—

"Heh… ha, it seems to me like you need the other England to get the heart put in for you, and you need _me_ to fix him!" laughed England, and the other France scowled more deeply. "He can't be cured by anything but magic, and he definitely can't do magic himself in the state he's in. And I'm not going to fix him for you. I'm not leaving, either, Francis…." he added, addressing his France, who was across from him on the ground, and his voice was much less cynical and angry as he said it. And then he saw the knife, which he hadn't seen before in the haze his loss of blood had caused him. He didn't know how to feel that France would have killed himself over him. Except… well, touched, really. There was something he needed to say, too, just in case they both died…. "I love you enough to do all it took to get down here, and you think I'm going to bloody leave you?"

_Love…_ Did France just hear the word love…? He couldn't quite trust his senses at this point, considering his loss of blood, but for some reason he was pretty sure he had heard that correctly. Unconsciously moving the knife slightly away from his chest, he stared back at England and tried his best to make his eyes focus through the haze, the multiple duplicates of the room swimming in his head, and the sudden tears. Several times he had told England to go home, and he was still here. So much danger and risk, and he was still here. The choice between France's life and the whole _world_, and he was still here.

"Non…," admitted France quietly, his voice shaking, "I don't… mon amour." As much as he wanted England to leave, he knew it would take something drastic to get him to.

At those two French words, England broke a little more. And he wanted so badly to reach out for France, he didn't want to be stuck across the room from him…. And then he remembered they weren't alone in the room. The other France was still there, and he was staring at both of them as though bored and disgusted by the words passed between them—disgusted by sentiment.

Glaring up at the other France again, he hated every bit of the bastard. And _fuck_, his wound was bleeding a lot. Sooner or later, he was going to bleed out enough to die—of course, he'd come back to life after a simple wound like that, but the other France would definitely have figured out that he'd been sort-of-lying about the other England by then. So he needed to figure out something very fast, before he lost too much blood…. Wait. _Blood._

The gears in his mind quickly worked towards a decision: It looked like it was time for the black magic again. With his right hand, he dipped a finger into the blood spilling from his side. He continued glaring at the other France while smearing a symbol on the floor with his blood.

"Oh, non, monsieur! That's not going to work!" His eyes widening in mild panic and anger, the other France pulled back the hammer to his gun and was about to shoot—

"You shoot… him… I-I… die… with your… heart…." France strained himself to say—but then he noticed what England was doing. His hazy eyes widened. England was going to do black magic. _Black magic._ The other France seemed to know this as well, and, looking at him, France suddenly felt sick. Those violet eyes on his own face were full of hatred, fear, and age.

This nation wasn't just a psychopath, not by a long shot. France realized that his other self had people too, and he remembered the other England saying their world was in constant war, hence the other France's impending death. That was when France knew he was going to shoot England before he could finish the drawing, and right now France needed to buy him time while he had his other self's attention. The other England had shown him his world's Italy, a monster if France ever saw one, but now it was okay, because Arthur had said that only magic could fix him. No war, then—but the other France's finger was tightening on the trigger, so he had to do something now.

"_Fils de pute_," he hissed at his other self. Sure enough, the other France's attention was back on him—and with one last breath and all the hope that England might actually take this chance and leave, he stuck the knife into his heart.

"NON!" The other France was running toward him now, and France's hand slipped from the handle as his breathing thinned and everything started to get blurrier.

_England had _placed his hand in the middle of the symbol at the same time that he realized what his France had done, and he nearly collapsed again from shock. France had just… killed himself. He couldn't believe it, he couldn't fathom the sight of even more blood starting to flow from his chest, and—

"No… NO! _FRANCIS!__" _As everything hit him, he left the blood symbol and scrambled to his feet in full panic, nearly slipping on his own blood, to hurry over there and—_the other France was running there too._ The other France was the reason his France had a knife sticking out of his chest. It was _him_ who had started it all, who had needed the other England to make this deal…. And England didn't think he'd ever hated anything more in his entire life. Not that he was even really thinking as he practically ripped the gun from the other France's hand and shot him directly in the face. He then almost immediately fell back again, this time slipping on his France's blood—and also from his lack of balance because of blood loss.

"A-Arthur…." France's vision was so blurred he couldn't even figure out what was who and who was where. Everything hurt. And he was vaguely aware of a gunshot and screaming. There wasn't much time. England was wasting it because nations in this world didn't die easy…. And as England's green, tear-filled eyes appeared in front of him, he saw his other self rise from the floor, half of his face blown off and his remaining violet eye irate.

England wasn't paying attention, and France felt what little strength he had leaving him as he forced himself up to his feet, pushing past a confused, horrified England and grasping the knife. He fell onto his other self, stabbing the knife through the other's heart. The other France let out a roar of rage as he fell back. They both hit the floor, and France stared into the eye of his other self before they both faded out at the same time and France collapsed on top of him.

His vision rapidly blurring, England just kept staring—he didn't know for how long. He just kept waiting, but he didn't know for what. Neither of the Frances were moving. Nothing was registering, nothing in his mind was making sense, until a thought in a small voice wriggled its way through his head—_No… no…._

With extremely depleted strength (and blood), no breath in his lungs, and very little ability to even think clearly, England pulled himself as quickly as he could over to the two Frances—mostly using his arms because his legs felt useless, and he grabbed the arm of his France to roll him off of the other and onto his back.

"F-Francis…."

He couldn't even recognize his own voice at this point, it was so fraught with pain. He strained himself to bring a hand to France's lifeless face and very lightly cup his cheek… and he was stuck looking at those half-open, empty eyes. The one thing England couldn't bring himself to look at was the bloody hole in his chest, but he didn't have to look at it to know that it was completely mutilated….

Normally, even with this sort of injury, he would have assumed France was going to come back to life later. They were nations; that's what happened. But here, in this other world… he couldn't be sure. He couldn't even be sure that he himself would come back to life once he bled out, which he knew he wouldn't be able to stop.

"Y-you idiot…." *he said very weakly, tears already flowing freely again. "Why… you didn't have to…. _Why…_?" His words trailed off as he found it more and more difficult to speak… or breathe…. The wound at his side had been bleeding for a while, and his efforts to staunch it hadn't been working—when he'd actually been trying, anyway. He wasn't trying to do that anymore. England was only trying to hold himself up and hold onto France… but even that was becoming harder. Impossible, even. Not impossible enough, though, to keep him from lowering his head and kissing his unmoving lips. He just needed one last kiss….

But within a few seconds after that, he found himself unable to support himself at all, and he collapsed completely, landing on his side to the right of France. The hand he'd been using to hold what he could of France's face slid off his neck and to the floor, and England could honestly feel the last couple pints of blood leaving him and his heartbeat slowing to a stop. With the very last ounce of his strength, he slid his hand down the blood-covered floor to France's.

_What an awfully romantic way to die…,_ he thought vaguely. _Francis would appreciate this._

He joined their hands as tightly as he can just as he faded out completely, still staring at France's lifeless face.

* * *

Having finally managed to relieve himself of the knives, the other England stepped down to the basement to see the mess everything had turned out to be.

"Well, poo," he huffed. He went over to his other self, who was still breathing. No one else was, he knew, and with one press of his hand, he started to heal the other.

As England regained consciousness sometime later, his first thoughts, before he could see anything properly, were that he was probably dead…. But then the dark and dusty room became clearer, and he could smell blood. _So I did come back…,_ he thought vaguely, and with honest disappointment.

The only reason he wasn't feeling worse was because he's too numb to feel anything just yet. Except… he could feel that all of his wounds are closed, and there was a hand on him. Vaguely confused, England turned his head just enough to see the other England hovering over him. _Wha—why… why did he heal me…?_ He was about to ask that very question when he also felt that France's hand was still in his… and, lying next to him, France was still dead. So he looked to the other England above him and asked a more important question instead.

"Is he… going to stay dead?" The numbness of feeling caused his face to remain seemingly impassive and his voice a whisper. "Can he be h-healed?"

"He'll come back," the other England said casually, going over to his own France and lifting his body up into a sitting position. "As will mine, but yours will be damaged. He lost his life in a different world. He'll wake up a loon." *He sighed and pouted, and once again they looked fake. "His heart's no good now. I'll have to find another for my very special cupcake here."

England let out a very deep breath of relief upon knowing that France was not dead…. That had to have been at least the fifth time that had happened in the past twenty-four hours (depending on how long he'd been dead, anyway), but it was a better feeling than he could have ever imagined. But the other thing… _He'll wake up a loon?_ Finally moving from his lying position on the floor, England quickly rolled over and got on his knees somewhat to see France.

His heart was still visible, but it looked as though some of the skin and bone had grown back over. Slowly, he moved his hand to cup the side of France's face again, now much less shakily than he'd been able to earlier. The other hand went behind his head and neck, lifting it up enough that it could rest on his arm, as though he was cradling it. He then closed his eyes and let his head fall to the space in between France's neck and shoulder.

"…How insane will he be?" he asked in slightly choked breaths. "Will he… remember me? Will he remember that all of this happened, or what he used to be like?"

"'Fraid not, love." His other self waved his hand. "From games in the past, he might be lucid every now and then, but he'll be madder than a hatter." He looked down at the other France and heaved a sigh. "Now my dear love is going to have his knickers in a twist when he wakes up, so you best be on your way while I try to find another world to harvest a heart from. Poor thing's sickness will probably have him out for a few months at least. Yours will be up in a few hours, though I suggest you restrain him," he advised, smiling cheekily. "Just in case."

While he couldn't say he hadn't expected that answer, he still couldn't help the tears. Or the shaking. Or the dry, racking sobs that forced him to convulse a little too much. Or the half-wish that he had died himself. …It was almost worse than France being dead. England still wouldn't have France, because he wouldn't even _be_ France. He still wouldn't have the most important person in his life. Sure, he'd spent decades in isolation, even from bickering with France, in the past… but he didn't know how he would be able to deal with this—with having France there, but him being completely mad.

"B-but—what about the other nations in my world?" England choked out in between sobs, looking up very slightly from France's neck. "Will he remember anything about them? Will he even _know_ he's a nation? …And why am_ I_ not mad right now?—didn't I die for a while too…?"

"Sweet thing," the other England cooed, his smile full of cyanide honey, "he won't be able to tell his own arse from a faucet. There are times he'll be lucid, perhaps for an hour, perhaps for five minutes, or five years, but he'll always fall back on this death." Pausing, he tenderly took the knife out of the other France's chest. "As for your death, it was close but no cigar! Lucky for you, I got out of those bloody knives you pinned me with." At that, he pouted. "That was rather mean. Now, I suggest you take him back to your world. Scoot! Things were going so well. I had him convinced I could open a big enough portal between worlds to start a war and everything!"

Those last words took a second to reach him, but then everything became painfully clear. All of that pain, all of that risking his life, and blood, and watching France nearly die in front of him so many times… it had been for nothing. Nothing at all. And now his France was going to be mad for the rest of his life… because the other England had manipulated them with a hollow threat. His other self seemed not to realize he'd said anything important, though.

A spark lit the numbness in his eyes, and all at once, everything just hit him and the only thing he knew was that he wanted bloody _revenge_, nothing else—and it seemed that he went from completely calm to in an absolute rage, recklessly launching himself, once again, over to the other England. He didn't even know what he was trying to do—grab for the knife, grab his throat, whatever. He just wanted to _hurt_ him.

"YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH—!"

The other England's eyes widened and something flashed in front of him, like an invisible wall that sent England falling back.

"I'm being very generous with you, other me. Now, if I were you, I'd take your new bundle of crazy and go home before that generosity runs dry…," he said, his expression more of mild annoyance than anything.

"Generous?" England was too incomprehensibly angry to be fazed by his impact with the invisible shield or the floor. "You're being _generous_? YOU DID THIS TO HIM! ALL OF THIS WAS BECAUSE OF _YOU_! IT WOULD HAVE BEEN _GENEROUS_ OF YOU TO LET ME DIE WITH HIM!"

His lungs were burning with all the effort he was putting forth to yell, but the pain still didn't register in his anger. Not even thinking about the other countries or how they would deal (or even find out what happened to them), he knew that he'd honestly rather be insane as well than be completely aware of France not knowing him.

"Honestly, you're screaming as if you think I might care," said the other England dismissively. "Shoo now. I have work to do. Now I suggest you take him and go or I'll finish you both off."

And then from behind, France gave a cough, his eyes cracking open, and he muttered something in French before sitting up and scratching at his healing chest.

Hearing the cough and panicking, England snapped his head around to see France awake and sitting up. _No…_ no, he wasn't ready for this. He'd thought that there would at least be another hour of his France being seemingly normal and asleep. He still wanted revenge, and he even briefly considered letting the other England kill him… but that would have been much too selfish. There needed to be someone to take care of France, and to explain to the other countries what had happened….

"Can you at least open a portal for us?" he said quietly, yet quickly. The other England smirked and complied, but not before taking a glance at the France who was still waking up and probably trying to gain the senses he wouldn't remember having.

Taking France's arm before he could object (not that he was even sure that was what he would have done), he pulled him through the portal. As he left to his own world, he didn't care what his now insane France would do or say to him—but he did know that he would try his best to explain everything to France, to help him, and to take care of him. There was no way he was going to let him go to a mental hospital. And he'd think of something to tell the other countries. And… he knew he'll get some sort of revenge someday.

England stepped foot back in his own world, and he could feel the thoughts weighing on him and the sight of a very confused France cause what was left of his heart to break.

* * *

**And there it is. Is your heart broken? Because if it's not, then I'm not doing a good enough job. I sort of want to do an epilogue, and I probably will if enough people want one. **

**Anyway, I would love it if you reviewed, told me how this made you feel, if your heart's shattered and the pieces are all over the floor... or just tell me what you thought! ^_^**


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